Seven
by awilliamson81
Summary: Her breathing stops for the briefest of moments when his name creeps up her spine and settles itself in the back of her mind. Notes: This may turn into an M rating at some point - I'm not certain yet.
1. Get Paint

Chapter 1

It starts like this - she drags her tired, sore feet through her apartment door after a long day of bickering with her computer in an office that feels like it was stealing the air from her lungs. Her overstuffed purse drops from her aching shoulder before she tries her damnedest to shrug off her light jacket. In her fight to gain control over the (seemingly) powerful polyester garment, she sees it. Or them, really.

The bullet holes in her wall are not so much holes now as they are...white patches?

She tentatively steps closer to the wall above her short dresser and runs her finger over the still wet spackle. Putty? She's not sure what to call it, but she knows its purpose. Her breathing stops for the briefest of moments when his name creeps up her spine and settles itself in the back of her mind.

A note catches her eye. It is, of course, written on the back of her electric bill.

"Get paint."

A surprised bark of laughter bubbles out of her before she can stop it and her hand covers her mouth as if she could shove it back inside. The smile she's wearing makes her feel lighter than she has in months.

"Yes, sir. " she says out loud to her quiet apartment. He's left cash for her which makes her roll her eyes. She grabs the cash and her purse before heading back out.

She spends way too much time buying paint supplies. She happily carries bags full of paint rollers, brushes, tape, and sandpaper (to smooth the spackle/putty/bullet hole-filler) back to her apartment.

She's home and unpacking the bags when it finally occurs to her that Frank was in her apartment. By himself. Obviously, she realized this before, but the weight of it is only now resting on her nerves. He was here with her things - her pictures, her dirty dishes, her stained shower, and her chocolate cake she baked two days ago for only herself. She had run through half of that cake in two days and was now making mental plans to eat a slice, take a hot shower, and fall into bed.

She steps out of her heels and begins to undress where she stands, pausing when she becomes hyper aware of her location in front of the window. She feels the all too familiar and creepy sense of someone's eyes on her, but can distinguish when it's only her mind playing tricks on her. She leaves the curtains open just in case.

The cake is calling her name. Yes, she's going to be naked and eating cake because that's what living alone is all about. Only her half a cake is now a quarter of a cake and those dishes she left are no longer dirty. She frowns slightly. She does not pout and she certainly does not stomp her foot in exasperation.

She grabs a fork and the rest of the cake and eats it out of spite.

Her belly feels rounder and she'll have a sugar hangover tomorrow, but there's no more for him.

Her day starts like this - coffee, scanning the news for signs of Frank and/or Matt's handiwork, and then making herself presentable for the outside world.

She leaves a note, on a notepad-thank you very much- saying, "Landlord keeps paint in the basement"

She stares at it for a good 30 (million) seconds, deciding if she should say thank you in the note or ask him to stick around so she can thank him properly. Is that sexual? It sounds sexual. She means with a meal or some beer or whatever else he might like. Ammo?

Her phone buzzes and shakes her from her thoughts. A weather update. Clear today with a high of 65. Silly of her to think it would be a human making contact with her.

Some mornings she loves stepping out and breathing in the city - can feel it pulse through her. Those are the days she can forget her darkest memories and live only for the moments ahead of her.

This, thankfully, is one of those mornings.

She's not a fool and will not try and deny it's because of his presence. Her thoughts seem to always travel the dark and windy road to him. He is always there to accept her as is. Major flaws and all. Of course, this is all in her fractured mind and she has no real idea how he would treat her after she made it clear he was a dead man walking. To her, anyway.

If the white marks all over her wall are any indication, he's cool with it.


	2. Pattern

Chapter 2

She spends her day thinking about him - how he got into her apartment, what would make him think of her and her poor battered wall, and what made him think he was welcome enough to eat her cake.

Okay that last thing sits with her longer than it should. He must feel a familiarity, a comfort with her and that warms her. She is one of two people alive that does not fear him. In fact, he makes her feel safe. This city, her city can break your back. It can rip out your humanity and feed it back to you in small mangled bits. With him around (and admittedly Matt), she knows her life will never truly be in danger.

Frank Castle would never allow anything or anyone to hurt her. He's made that abundantly clear.

Okay, Matt wouldn't either, but he's so unreliable as of late. Also, he lied to her for so long and she is not ready to forgive him of that. To her, being lied to is one of the worst betrayals a person can endure. It makes her feel as though she is not worthy of the truth.

Frank doesn't lie to her.

It's as simple as that. He doesn't look her in the face and feed her bullshit. He respects her enough to tell her the truth. His truth. She has every confidence he would never mislead her. You know, besides that time he used her as bait. That wasn't great.

There's a knock on her office door and Jeremy sticks his head in to see if she's leaving any time soon or if he should leave on more lights for her.

It's 7:00 pm and normally she would be here for at least another hour, but today she cannot engage. Her focus is scattered and she cannot stop her brain from visualizing the most dangerous man alive painting her humble wall.

She's thoroughly enjoying the borderline chilly night air when she reaches her stoop and stops short. There he is. He's sitting on her stoop with his low black cap and his big black boots. He looks up at her with those soft brown eyes. Soft? No. His brown eyes. Whatever, he has eyes and they're searching her. He takes her in slowly before he grunts his greeting.

"Ma'am."

"Hi, Frank."

She's giving him a wry smile and his gaze darts across the street to avoid it.

"I owe you a thank you."

"Nah. You uh- you don't owe me."

She nods and clears her throat against the thick air between them. Should she invite him up? Should she sit next to him and enjoy the night? It feels like she's living in a 'choose your own adventure' book.

He holds his hand out to her and she's momentarily confused when she sees the flash of silver.

"I changed your lock."

That explains his presence. Who knows how long he's been waiting around for her like a loyal guard dog. She regrets comparing him to a dog the second she thinks it. Although, everything about him screams pit bull.

"You- what was wrong with my old lock?"

"I've been in your apartment the last two days and I didn't go in through the window."

His tone is gruff, but not admonishing. He looks less bruised than she remembers and she wants to know everything he's done since the last time they saw each other. That meeting was a lot more dramatic than this one.

"Come show me how to use it."

His eyebrows fold and he opens his mouth to say something when she cuts him off. "Just come upstairs and let me thank you."

This time his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he purses his lips. "That's-"

"With a beer, Frank." She rolls her eyes and opens the door to her building.

He follows her upstairs, keeping closer to her than she anticipated. Her back feels warm from the heat of his stare and she almost trips up the stairs when he steadies her with his strong, warm hand. "Heels," she mutters sheepishly.

When she reaches her door she stares at it blankly and then turns to him.

"Seven?"

There are seven new locks. One more than six and one fewer than eight. Seven. It's her lucky number, but come on. They are small and sleek looking, all lined up neatly and close together. They don't even really look like door locks.

"What if I need to get in quickly?"

"Why would that happen?"

"Someone could be chasing me!"

He has the gall to look amused. "That's not gonna happen."

"Then what is the point of this?"

He suddenly can't seem to meet her eyes and she drops it for now, but not forever. She'll be pushing him on this in the near future - if he doesn't disappear.

She raises her new key to unlock- "which one?"

"All of them. Pick a pattern and remember it.

"I- what? One key for seven locks?" She inspects the key closer and sees that it's not your average key. It doesn't have the mountain range style ridges and it's smooth instead.

Well now she's just curious. She slides the key into the second lock from the top and hears the soft sound it makes to let her know it has, in fact, unlocked. She looks at him with disbelief coloring her features and he smirks his mouth around a barely there chuckle.

She finishes with the six other locks in a pattern she's careful to memorize. She's impressed, but not convinced this isn't completely ridiculous and totally unnecessary for her meager digs.

"No one else can unlock that door besides you. Not even me. One key, one pattern."

She wants to ask him why. Why he wouldn't install a normal lock or two and keep a key for himself. Why he's doing this after three months of nothing. No contact. No way of her knowing if he was alive or dead.

Once they are inside she steps out of her shoes and grabs them each a beer. He stands near her door and she sits on her small couch with her legs tucked under her. She doesn't smell paint, but her walls look as if no one ever tried to paint them with her blood. He saved her then. She's alive because of him.

Oh fine, she'll forgive him for the cake.

"It doesn't smell like you painted."

"I had the windows open until about a half hour ago."

He takes a long pull off his bottle and looks everywhere but at her. She pulls her button down shirt out of her skirt. That seems to get his attention and he watches her carefully.

"You were here all day?"

He nods.

"Did you go through my stuff?"

"No," he says calmly and without hesitation.

"Did you want to?"

He smiles that half, downward smile before taking another pull off his bottle and there's a stutter in her body - it starts in her stomach and floats up to her chest. She'll take that as a yes.

He places his empty beer bottle on the counter and tells her he has to head out. The invitation for takeout dies on her lips and she thanks him again instead.

"My pleasure," he answers, and she doesn't doubt that for a second.


	3. Shiny

This is how her night ends - a broken heel, smeared lipstick, and regrets.

Alright, listen. LISTEN. She's not drunk. She's NOT. Three martinis does not a drunk woman make. She prefers to call it shiny. You know that phase between tipsy and drunk where everything seems to glisten and all is right in the world? Shiny. She broke her heel walking into Josie's before she had her first sip of alcohol. She smeared her lipstick when she grabbed Jeremy and pushed him into the alley beside Josie's. That's where the regret comes in.

She kissed him hard and fast and stumbled away from him with her hand covering her mouth. She mumbled her apologies before he could see her cry.

Damn it, alcohol has betrayed her again. Why does she keep coming back?

He's waiting for her on her stoop when she arrives home. He gets to his feet quickly after taking in her appearance. Her shoulders slump in defeat and tells him not to ask.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay." She smiles to convince him.

He nods and she's relieved, then a wave of guilt ripples through her. "I kissed my co-worker," she blurts out and then winces. Fucking alcohol.

He looks at her for what feels like forever before he nods. He nods. What the hell is she supposed to do with a nod?

"I want you to come upstairs." Whatever. She shoots from the hip.

"Yes, ma'am." Another nod.

"That's not- I didn't mean it to sound...like that." She scrambles oh-so-elegantly. "And please call me Karen."

He looks amused and tells her he knows what she meant.

They're both on her couch, him with a glass of scotch and her with a glass of water.

"Where do you live?" It's something she has a hard time picturing now - Frank in an apartment of his own. Sometimes her mind paints him as a creature of the night, living in shadows, fueled by coffee and the blood of bad men. She's then reminded by her better senses they're not living in a comic book or horror movie. He's a murderer. Granted, he's erasing the scum polluting this earth, but still. Murderer.

"I'll take you sometime...that is if you can pull yourself away from locking lips with co-workers." He slants a smile her way to let her know he's joking.

"It's outside the city?" She assumes this because he tells her he'll take her. This implies a drive, doesn't it? She should be a damn detective.

"A ways, yeah. I think- uh, I think you might like it. It's quiet though. You okay with quiet?" He looks relaxed, centered.

"I'm from a rural area in Vermont - I miss quiet," she smiles brightly. It's not always easy to think of home, but when he's close and warm and smelling of scotch, she feels a static comfort envelope her. She would confess anything in this moment if only he would ask.

His eyes brighten and dance over her face. "Oh, you'll love this, see- it's a cabin. Nothing else around for at least a mile." There's something wistful in his tone and it sends shivers through her. It has the effect of a massage and she sinks deeper into the couch cushion, hanging on his words.

"Easier to breathe...more stars, the whole deal."

"And you'll drive there tonight or do you have somewhere in the city?"

"I'll uh, I'll drive." He finishes his scotch.

"It's late. You should stay." That sounded like a pleasant, accommodating friend and not a horny drunk (shiny) journalist, right? She finds she doesn't give a shit either way.

The look he wears now is tortured. He pulls off his cap and scrubs a hand through his hair. She snatches the cap from him and places it on her own head and he laughs lightly.

What she doesn't know is he takes a mental picture and smells the inside of the cap later on his drive home. Because he doesn't stay.

It feels like a loss. It drains her. She wanted him on her couch or in her bed beside her. Wishful thinking, she now knows. maybe she should be surprised by these feelings of want. Wanting him near. Wanting to hear him, smell him. Her body is betraying her by craving it all.

Would she ever admit this to anyone else with a pulse? Hell no.

She will, though. She just doesn't know it yet.

Her night is restless. She gives up around 3am and turns on a light and her TV, but zones out thinking about how a cabin suits him perfectly.

He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, crowded by his two dogs. Sleep eludes him for hours before he says "fuck it," and gets up to fix that broken drawer in the kitchen.

She watches the sun rise, sitting on her bed with a mug of coffee in her hands, thankful for Saturdays.

He watches the sun rise from his front porch, mug of coffee in his hand, dogs at his feet, thankful for her.

She receives a package on Monday morning containing a burner phone. The only contact is him.

She doesn't know if she should call or text. The situation is absurd. Call or text the Punisher? Isn't there some signal she, the distressed damsel, is supposed to flash in the night sky to summon him? She rolls her eyes.

Frank Castle, presumed dead. Frank Castle, her...buddy?

She needs more coffee.

Her week is more productive than the last and she feels good. She feels confident and energetic. NyQuil is helping her sleep at night, paired with noise cancelling earbuds. Jeremy avoids her until she makes a joke about it and he says it was no big deal- just a bit of fun.

She hasn't even contacted Frank. No sign of him at all. Check her out, she's killing it.

Then she gets stabbed because of course she does.

Okay, she isn't STABBED stabbed. It's only a little. Some fucking creep, looking strung out and needy approached her on the fucking street, WHERE THERE ARE PEOPLE and stuck a knife into her side and grabbed her purse. He barely stabbed her because he saw her face and got scared. Her face scared a junkie. This is the opposite of killing it.

Oh, there's Frank.

It's the last thing she remembers thinking before passing out. Not from blood loss or something badass like that. No. She's the goddamn distressed damsel and her Punisher summoning symbol is a shocked scream that she chokes on and while crumpling to the ground like a broken lawn chair.

She wakes again to him cursing and ...doing things in her apartment. She's not sure what those things are, but he looks busy. She tries to sit up and he's at her side in a breath.

"Hey...hey..." Tears blossom in her eyes from the pain and he's shushing her quietly. "Don't try to sit up yet."

She's trying to regulate her breathing, but every inhale feels like- "did you stitch me?"

"Had to. Be mad, but I wasn't gonna drop you at some hospital."

"Hospitals have pain meds."

"How bad?"

"Well, I was stabbed so- do you have anything?"

He pulls a bag out from under her bed and digs around inside until she hears the familiar sound of pills rattling inside plastic. He helps her sit up and hands her a pill with some water.

She must have passed out again because she wakes up in the backseat of a car. The prickly heat of panic floods her nerves and she holds her breath to stay quiet.

The radio is on and playing a Bob Seger song and ...his voice. His goddamn beautiful voice loosens her nerves and she breathes easy again. He's singing along sporadically, under his breath, but it's enough to make her feel that comfort she's found herself craving lately.

"Hey," she rasps.

"Don't sit up- we're almost there."

His cabin. She doesn't need to ask. She's so thankful for him in this very moment, but...her job. It's Friday, which is good, but a stab wound will take more than a weekend to heal and Ellison will want to treat her like porcelain.

"Did you kill him?"

He's quiet.

"Frank."

"He stabbed you, Karen. I killed him."

It's her turn to be quiet.

"I should have been there." The anger rolling off him is only directed at himself. "Living out here isn't gonna work."

"No, Frank. Stop. You- you were there. You were right there. I'm not sure why, but I'm thankful you were. ...I can't- I don't-"

"I was coming to see you. To see- we talked about you seeing- about you coming here, yeah?" He adjusts the rear-view mirror to make eye contact with her. "I was coming to get your problematic ass out of Hell's Kitchen for the weekend...or a night."

An overnight with Frank. In a cabin. In the middle of nowhere. Not romance novel material AT ALL.

"Sorry I went and got myself stabbed." She hopes he picks up the self-deprecating tone. "Thank you for saving me. Again." She says the last word so quietly it feels like a prayer on her lips.

He bristles a bit and clears his throat. "You don't ever need to thank me."

She allows those words to settle in the air between them, breathes them in, and exhales them slowly.

It's total bullshit of course. She needs to thank him like she needs air. She needs him to exist in her orbit and that will always lead to her thanking him if for nothing more than being alive.

She sits up against his orders and regrets it immediately, but it hurts too much to move again.

"Got any more of those pills?"

He pulls into what seems like a mile-long driveway before grunting an affirmative response.

The cabin comes into sight and she forgets the pain in her side. She forgets the city, her job, her murderous traveling companion... This isn't some hide out cabin for serial killers. This is a damn ski resort style cabin. Here, she thought he would prefer to live simply. It's not an episode of MTV Cribs, but it's not a simple uni-bomber cabin either. How the hell-? And while we're at it-

"Whose car is this?"

"He won't miss it."

"And the cabin?"

"Mine."

She's not getting an explanation because she's not going to ask. Yet.

He gets out of the front seat and opens her door in the back. He'll need to help her out and possibly hold her up. She's about to enter this man's house and he's done so much to preserve her life- something doesn't feel right, almost off balance.

"I killed Wilson Fisk's right hand man...I killed James Wesley."


	4. Copper

Chapter 4

He's quiet. So, so very quiet. She wants to fill the silence with an explanation, but her voice dies somewhere in her gut and instead they seem to be having a staring contest.

He stands up straight (losing the contest) and all she can see is his crotch...area. "Frank?" Oh, there's her voice.

He folds himself into the car next to her and closes the door so the overhead light goes off. They're sitting in the dark together and she wants to tell him everything, but she knows he won't need all the details. He won't even need an explanation.

"He was going to kill me."

He meets her gaze, something like understanding (and maybe pride) in his eyes. "You killed him first." His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. "Explains some things."

The rodeo.

"Am I, uh ... Are you going to punish me?" She's trying to lighten the air, make a poorly timed joke. Jokes about murder. The best kind.

She sees the smirk. He looks away for a moment and asks, "I don't know, Miss Page, do you wanna be punished?"

Oh.

Good lord, that is a thought she will possibly (probably) entertain later. For now, she's feeling a little...stabbed and you know, not great.

He clears his throat and puts his arm around her.

"What are you doing?" Smooth and so very inviting.

"Getting you out of the car, unless you wanna sleep here?"

She does not.

They finally make their way inside and are greeted by two dogs. "You have dogs?"

"The grey one's name is Blue and the other one is Fancy."

Pit Bulls. Is this women's intuition? She really is that good. "Fancy?"

Did he really name a dog 'Fancy?'

"She thinks she's fancy. Also, it was on her collar." He walks her to the couch and turns on a couple more lights. The dogs follow him around and she falls in love. At this very moment she is in love. With all three pit bulls. That's it. Just like that - this is how it happens. There's no twinkly lights or bells or fanfare. There's a stitched stab wound and dogs.

The cabin is comforting and warm, as cabins should be, but she's still uncomfortable. "I need another pill."

He sits next to her on the couch and Blue shoves his face between his legs as Fancy settles herself on the couch to the right of him. He's petting both of them, but watching her. "Maybe wait until we get you to bed- soon." He tells the dogs to go lay down and they both retreat to another room. She wants the tour, but it will have to wait until she can move on her own. Hopefully tomorrow?

"Can I ask- Fisk? Does he, uh- does he know? Does he have any idea who you are or-?"

"Well, I'm still alive, so I assume he's in the dark."

He sighs heavily. "Fisk isn't a guy that lives in the dark...we're gonna have to be ready for this...he's a powerful, man. Nothing I can't handle, but...you can't get mad if I'm on your ass a lot more."

She- on her ass? She doesn't know where to begin.

"Okay, first... I CAN get mad, but if I'm in any danger and you wanna, you know, keep me alive...I think I'll be okay with that. And B, what do you mean by a lot more?"

"More than I am now." He stands to take off his jacket. He stretches his back and arms.

Her mouth is dry.

"You're on my ass now?"

"A little. I know your schedule, your co-workers, your neighbors, your landlord, and the people that regularly walk your block." He cracks what sounds like all of his bones. "You wanna get cleaned up or-?"

She's fully dressed in bloody clothes. Now that she's come back to herself and is able to process all her senses, she realizes she smells like sweat and copper. Her hair is sticky with what she can only assume is the source of the coppery scent lining her nostrils. Nausea hits her like a brick wall and her mouth fills with bitter tasting saliva.

"Oh god," she manages before everything goes whirly. "I was stabbed."

"There it is." He mutters. He helps her up and then carries her down a long hall (she thinks) to a soft surface (a bed, she will later realize).

She wakes up sweating and her side feels tight. There are like 7 blankets on her and she tries so very hard to kick them off.

He's there. "You kept saying you were cold."

She's no longer wearing her bloody clothes, but the smell is still there. He- her clothes.

"You saw me naked." It's a statement devoid of panic or embarrassment. She comprehends this was necessary and trusts him to always be respectful of her. But still...he saw her naked. She would have loved to watch his face when he was stripping off her clothes.

He shakes his head. "Only a little."

Okay.

"Blue slept with you." He's leaning forward in the armchair next to the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands folded, both dogs at his feet.

"Have you been here with me all night?"

"Yeah. I slept...some."

"I need a shower."

He nods. "Do you feel sick?"

"No just...grimy." He takes a small bottle of pills from his pocket and shakes them. "You can't take these when you feel sick."

He gets to his feet. "Why don't you get as far as you can, take it slow, and if you need me I'll be here."

"Okay. Can you ...help me out of the bed and I'll try to take it from there?"

He helps her up and out of bed. "Pill after shower. I'll make some food. Holler if you need me."

She makes it through her shower without incident. It was awkward, but she took it slow and carefully considered every move before she made it. He has the basics - shampoo, soap, and a razor. No conditioner, but she'll live. It would only be more work.

The entire time she stands under the hot spray, she's on edge, thinking he's going to pop in any moment.

Wouldn't be the worst surprise in the world. The worst surprise is cold steel piercing your flesh. She can handle a little Frank Castle, no problem.

Through some awesomely inventive acrobatic shit she wraps a towel around her still wet body and stands (mostly) straight.

Shit. "Frank."

She leaves the bathroom and he's there in the bedroom. "I uh- clothes?"

He motions to the end of the bed and there is a grey t-shirt and sweatpants neatly folded on the corner of the bed. "They're mine. I didn't wanna go through your stuff." He smirks that stupid awful dumb smirk and she hates his face.

"Thanks."

"I made grilled cheese."

She's going to make a fool of herself inhaling that food. Her stomach is empty and crying out for help.

She ate two grilled cheese sandwiches and drank a lot of water. The pill has taken the edge off and is working to make her feel ...lifted. She should be cautious here. She won't, but she should.

"Are you mad that I killed someone?"

"What kind of a question is that?" He looks confusedly amused. "Are YOU mad at me for killing?"

She giggles. Straight up giggles. She's a grown woman capable of shooting a man in the chest to save her own life and she's sitting here across from a vigilante/anti-hero/murderer and giggling in his face because they are casually discussing their killing record. Total rom-com shit right here.

He laughs at her and they're both laughing because of how insane this is.

When their laughter dies, he's staring at her with that intense gaze. "Does he know?"

Matt. Daredevil. Did she cut herself open and bleed her confession for Matt? No. No, she did not. She never wants to give him a part of her she's so closely protected. She doesn't think he deserves all of her.

"No. Just you." She laid herself bare to him and would continue to do so as long as he was around to accept her. As long as he's honest with her, she'll be honest with him.

"Listen, the stuff before...about Fisk. You can take care of yourself, but this is big. I need you to promise me you'll keep me involved - if - WHEN he finds out about you."

She considers his words. "I promise."

"I mean it, Karen. I don't doubt that you can hold your own in most situations, but not this. I met him when I was inside and I promised him he would die at my hands."

"You can't be with me every second of every-"

"I'll kill him." He cuts her off. "I'll kill anyone that gets in my way of killing him. Know that."

The intensity in his voice has her heart in her throat. "And know that I won't ever let him or anyone associated with him breathe the same air as you."

"Nothing is even happening. I'm here with you for the foreseeable future and no one is after me."

"You sure about that? Because I'm not. ...I'm not so sure that junkie was a junkie at all."

"He was strung out! This shit happens all over the city- it's all just dark and-"

"You think- what, you think I'm just gonna accept that?" He leans in, squinting his eyes at her. He's always so squinty.

"No. No and I don't either. You're right. Yes, I'm another violent crime victim, but I refuse to be only that."

He smiles at her. It's warm and genuine and she feels like they're in some super secret club together.

"Alright then, target practice starts tomorrow morning. Combat will have to wait until you're healed."

Ah, now she understands the smile. He wants to teach her how to truly hold her own against the bad guys.

"Do I get a say?"

"Sure. Of course."

"Okay fine. Tomorrow then." She tucks her now clean, dry hair behind her ears. "Maybe I can trade in my pencil skirts for a sexy stretchy cat woman outfit." It's a lame joke, but she's a little dorky and proud of it.

"I like the skirts." He rubs his chin and she can hear the scratch of his stubble, wonders what that would feel like against her sensitive skin. "Can I ask you something?" She nods so he'll continue. "Do you always wear those stockings- what are they called? The ones that stop at your thigh."

He's seen her. She forgot for awhile.

Her ears are burning hot and her pale skin is flushed. Did he take his time undressing her? Probably not. He wouldn't take advantage of the situation. He kills people that treat women like that.

She clears her throat. "Did you like them?"

"Yeah, I liked them."

"Uh, yes. I usually wear them."

He takes a deep breath and pushes away from the table. "C'mon, let's take these mutts out for some air." He holds his arm out for her stability but she'll never heal if she babies the wound.

They spend the rest of the afternoon walking the property and sitting on the porch. The sun goes down on them and a chill fills the air. If literally everything was different about their lives - his life - she would never want to leave.


	5. Dummy

Chapter 5

There are cans and bottles set up all over logs and stumps. It's late enough that they won't wake anyone when the sound carries, but early enough to still breathe in the brisk chill on the edge of every breeze.

"Pick one and shoot so I can see your form."

"You've seen my form." She says innocently because they're both aware she means this in more way than one.

He grins. "Show me."

She matches his grin and shoots. She, of course, doesn't miss. She licks her lips and aims and shoots at a bottle this time. The satisfying sound of glass exploding causes a surge in her blood and she takes the rest of the bottles out, one by one until all six are shards. Seven shots total.

"You hustled me."

Oh right, she bet him she could hit three out of 5.

"Beginner's luck?"

"How well do you do with moving targets?"

"I don't know - go run around and we'll find out."

He shakes his head and has to laugh a little. Serves him right for making assumptions.

"How did you learn?"

"It was one of the first things I did after I got settled here in the city - I found a range that set me up with an instructor and she was very good." She's pleased with herself and why shouldn't she be?

"Smart...I suppose I owe you an apology, ma'am."

"You don't ever have to apologize to me." It feels good tossing his words back at him because she means them.

"How about combat?"

"I tried taking self-defense courses, but the instructor was handsy and I dropped it. ...never picked it back up. ...It's weird, you know? Trying to- hitting people that have done you no wrong. Seems like something that should be fueled by adrenaline and not a sweaty instructor telling you to take out your opponent. I could never let go and ..." She trails off knowing he'll fill in the blanks.

"Yeah, when you put it like that." He has a funny look on his face that's a mix of confusion and adoration. "Then uh, how would you feel about working with me? If it's not your thing then it's not your thing."

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

"You just said-"

"I'm willing to try again. With you."

Her eyelids feel weighted and her body like one big pounding ache. She wants to sleep for days.

"Will you sleep with me?"

He chokes on his coffee. Honestly, why is he drinking coffee at 10:00 pm?

"Buy a guy dinner first." Wow, what a dad joke. Or is it? Do dad's joke about being bought a meal before putting out? Probably.

"I wouldn't come out and ask you to have sex with me, Frank. I mean literal sleep. Snores and dreams sleep."

"I know what sleep is, thanks."

She's not sure he does. His eyes and pallor tell a different tale.

She stands and holds out her hand for him.

"You're moving easy." He watches her for a moment before taking her hand and standing.

"It's just a flesh wound." She drops his hand and walks off towards the bedroom, knowing he'll follow her. She could be walking into the depths of hell and he'd follow her. Thankfully, this is just a bedroom.

"I don't sleep." He says once they reach the bed. She crawls onto the bed and gets comfortable, looking up at him.

"You will. C'mere." She's doing this for him as much as her. That intuition of hers is screaming at her, saying all he needs is someone to care. To see him. To accept him, as she's done, and assure him he can breathe easy. Easy enough to let his mind slip away from his right or wrong doings and just be there with her.

He lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, unblinking. She rolls towards him and situates herself against him, wincing against the pain.

"You shouldn't-"

"Well, I did."

She falls asleep quickly and wakes a few hours later to a screaming neck and shoulder.

He's asleep. Breathing softly and on his side now with his back to her. She must have rolled away from him. She sits up a bit to see if the dogs are with them and they are - Blue raises his head to see if she's going to get up and lowers his head when her head reconnects with her pillow.

Her phone call to Ellison goes horribly as she predicted. He's all worry and she is thankful to have people that care, but really she just wants to get off the phone and enjoy some time alone.

She's back in the city, at her apartment, in her clothes, and freshly showered.

She knows Frank will be back, but in the meantime she's going to catch up on the news, update any of her articles that need updating before she delegates the work to her co-workers (Ellison's orders).

She's not happy about this. Not at all. Stupid fucking junkie and his stupid jerk knife. She has a life to live, corrupt shit she needs to report. She pleaded with Ellison, but he told her if she turned anything in for next week he would trash it.

One whole week. One whole week of doing what? Resting? She's terrible at resting. She'll lose her ever-loving mind.

There's a knock at her door.

"Karen, open up. Ellison said you're here." It's Foggy.

Oh, Foggy.

She opens the door, bracing herself for the guilt. "Hey, come in." She steps aside and he moves past her quickly, shutting the door behind him.

Something stops the door.

The Punisher's boot. This should be fun.

Her brain betrays her and an old Girl Scout tune pops into her head, 'make new friends, but keep the old...' She covers her mouth to keep from laughing. Maybe shouldn't have taken that pill.

Foggy turns to see what has the door jammed and turns white. He steps away from the door and looks to Karen for an explanation.

"Foggy, you remember Frank..."

"I'll come back later." Frank speaks only to her.

Her. That's what got them into all this to begin with.

"No, don't be ridiculous. I was just going to make some coffee." She busies herself with the coffee maker and tells them to sit down.

Frank sits on her couch. Foggy doesn't move.

"You- you're- alive."

"No I'm not." He's not being deep. He doesn't want to be on anyone's radar. Well, except for hers.

"But I- you're RIGHT THERE. ...Karen, what the hell?" Poor Foggy. "Are you- okay, what is going on? You got stabbed!"

"How did you know that?" Frank's question is gruff.

"Her boss..." Foggy is addressing her now. "I called your office like, seven times because you weren't answering your cell. People shoot at you a lot, Karen...I was worried." He looks like he might cry. She goes to him then and wraps her arms around him. She waits for the pull of her stitches but it never comes. He softens and pulls her close. "You can't do that to me. You're almost all I have."

Frank is quiet. He keeps his gaze on the floor in front of him.

"I know. I know it was awful of me not to tell you. It all happened so quickly and Frank was there and- I'm okay now." She exhales slowly.

He pulls away and looks between Frank and Karen. "So, Frank's dead, huh?" This gets Frank's attention and he looks up at Karen.

"Yes. He's- no one can know. Please?" She pleads earnestly.

"This is- Karen, you're harboring a-"

"Dead man." Frank cuts in.

"Listen, to everyone else outside this room you're The Punisher. Some people mourned your death, but others...they celebrated. There was talk of a parade." Karen looks disgusted. "And then there are those that think you're still alive."

"People think Elvis is still alive. What's your point?" Frank is on his feet. Foggy flinches but he moves past Foggy for the coffee.

"My- my point is this- you haven't disappeared. Your death has only added to your intrigue-" Frank rolls his eyes, "you think I'm joking? There are blogs dedicated to you. There are whole fan groups obsessed with everything about you. Women- God, the women..."

Karen is doing her best to seem impassive. Frank is sipping his coffee.

"It's like- it's like 'Where in the World is Frank Castle?' ...people don't think you're dead, Frank. They think you're hiding and you ARE. ...This- this isn't good."

Karen's impassive turns to slight panic and worry. Frank is sipping his coffee.

"How are we gonna- we have to make him dead. Like, dead dead." Foggy is pacing now, burning a path into her already worn carpet. "Unless-" he stops in front of Frank. "Do you want to come back from the dead? Make it official? ...I would highly advise against it."

"I do that and what? Every cop in this city has a vendetta. I say bring it on, but I don't wanna- I'm not gonna wear orange and stare at bars until I rot."

"So we prove he's dead somehow." Karen adds lamely. How in the hell would they do that?

"Or we could leave it because I don't give a shit if people think I'm alive or dead."

"Also, there's that." Foggy supplies.

Karen excuses herself and steps away to the bathroom. She needs a minute with only her thoughts. Also, she has to pee.

Foggy turns to Frank. "Can I ask you something that's had me curious since I met you in the hospital?" Frank nods for him to continue. "Is there anything you're afraid of?"

Frank half laughs. "Two things now - snakes and-"

Karen comes back into the room and Frank motions to her with his mug, "her."

It's been two weeks since Foggy came to see her and was surprised with the very much alive Punisher. Ever since then Foggy has been texting her with ridiculous ways they could prove he's "dead"

Make a Punisher dummy and hang it over a bridge. Take pictures.

Have Frank lie face down in a ditch. Take pictures.

Run him over. Take pictures.

Light the Punisher dummy on fire. Take pictures.

They have served to amuse her for the past week and she's glad he's able to joke about this instead of having a conniption.

Frank is on her couch when she gets home.

"How the hell did you manage this?" She's referring to him, you know, being on her couch without her there.

"I have my ways."

He's sitting there watching her. She's back to her pencil skirt, button down, and heels.

There's something different about him - something charged and dare she say, dangerous. To anyone else, that's how he reads all the time, but not for her.

She's going to need whiskey.

She moves to the kitchenette and finds the half bottle of Gentleman's Jack and a short glass. She pours out two fingers as she comes to stand in front of him.

She swallows the amber liquid in one toss and refills it. This time she hands it to him and he swallows it down without hesitation. He inspects the glass for a moment before handing it back.

His voice, like silk over gravel, breaks the silence.

"How's the scar?"

She pours another two fingers worth, but only takes a sip before handing it back to him.

She pulls her shirt out of her skirt while he watches intently. But she doesn't stop there. Her fingers work to unbutton the crisp, navy blue shirt she's been looking forward to removing all day.

He wets his bottom lip and shifts in his seat.

Her shirt falls away, exposing her matching navy bra with black lace trim.

She steps out of her heels and closer to him so he can inspect her scar. He's staring up at her and hands her the glass. He doesn't seem to have an interest in the bright pink imperfection at her side.

She swallows the rest of the whiskey and sets the glass on the small table next to the couch. She's now standing directly in front of him. He's still staring, breathing hard and fast.

She slowly climbs onto his lap, straddling him, her skirt inching up her thighs in the process.

He looks down at the tops of her thigh highs and smirks.

When he looks back up at her, he grabs the back of her head and kisses her hard, his other hand pressing into the small of her back, bringing her closer.

She should be nervous. All first kisses are nervous, aren't they? I mean, this isn't her FIRST KISS EVER, but it's her first with Frank.

And god damn. Her hips grind down onto him, causing him to moan against her lips. If she thought she loved his voice before? Imagine that gruff, gravelly, throaty- you get the point.

He's pushing his hands up her thighs under her (now too tight) skirt when there's a knock at the door.

"You HAVE GOT to be KIDDING ME." She's frustrated. Like, really frustrated. She was in the zone and the whiskey was making her all loose and warm (or was that Frank?) and then some asshole has the gall to knock on her very closed and very locked door.

Frank squints at the door. She thinks he may need to see an eye doctor, but he doesn't have that luxury. "Expecting company?" He says it quietly, almost whispering.

"No."

"Karen, it's Matt. Foggy told me what happened. He also said you can't be mad at him." He laughs a little. "Please open up?"

Frank rolls his eyes. "This fucking guy."

It's Frank that opens the door as Karen scrambles to put on her shirt. "Hey, Red."


End file.
